DIARY OF A RUSSIAN SPY

April, 1982 I was given the chilling choice of returning to my grave- this time quite literally- or work for the organization that had rescued me from the death chamber. It wasn’t really a choice; to be honest, it felt like an ultimatum. I agreed to serve them. My training began the very next day. In the camouflaged courtyard of the Camp, I was introduced to various techniques of fighting. I learned hand-to-hand grappling and weapon disarmament, as well unauthorized combat style. The weapons training was always conducted with live rounds. I exerted myself to the limit and continued to excel in most fields. The stocky man with ice-blue eyes who had first persuaded me to join the training was always at a distance, watching like an eagle. The slightest weakness was noticed. Endless hours of weight lifting, grueling physical exercises and delicate target practicing became the norm. Each week, we would be introduced to different martial arts and wrestling techniques from around the world. As it turned out, the blue-eyed man was my personal handler; a ruthless trainer who worked me along with the other recruits in the most back-breaking manner. His name was Mikhail, but he wanted us to address him as Michael because we were practicing to become fluent in the English language. No exercise or routine was taken lightly. If I panted or had to catch my breath after a bout of training, he would call me out to do additional runs. If you had trained hard enough, then you wouldn’t be struggling to catch your breath, Mikhail used to say. I resented the strict order and often, when it was my turn to engage in a duel or hand combat, instead of fighting in the boxing ring, I would resort to ballet dancing, demonstrating moves I had learned from my ballerina mother. Mikhail would be unimpressed by my transgressions and often doubled my practice but I was still reluctant to accept the new life at the Camp. It made me feel sorely trapped. I qualified to become an operative after completing only six months of training. Michael was openly proud of my accomplishment and after planting a tracking chip in the tip of my spine, he referred me to the director of the Camp, a former colonel who had served for decades in the KGB. The colonel gave me my first assignment: enter a restaurant and assassinate a former State Duma deputy. I was told that the target was allegedly involved in illegal weapons trade. At the age of nineteen, graduating fresh from a militarized school, I never thought to question my leaders. I believed in what the colonel said. My target was an evil man who needed to be eliminated. Michael dropped me off in front of the restaurant and handed me a weapon; a P-96 pistol. He warned me that this was a test. I had five minutes to eliminate the target and return to the car. After that, Michael would leave and I would be on my own. He insisted that the first mission was always a test to assess the recruit. If I was unsuccessful, then I would likely be canceled. I learned many months later what the term canceled implied. I entered the high-end restaurant and saw my target seated at the rear of the dining space. He was surrounded by eight bodyguards. I contemplated on my options. Shooting an unarmed man in a public place was an unpleasant task; still I had to do what needed to be done. I stood at a distance and tried to aim. Despite six months of training and passing shooting practices with flying colors, I was being unable to shoot the man who was blissfully dining with his men. After a minute of hesitation, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. I missed, of course. But that was the beginning of a carnage that would have unfolded. I opened my eyes and pressed the trigger, but heard only empty clicks. The gun Michael gave me didn’t have any bullets. I breathed in relief. I didn’t have to kill anyone. However, my comfort was short-lived. In my zeal to carry out the mission, I had neglected to notice the diners who were whispering, pointing to the raised pistol in my hand. My target glanced up and saw me holding the gun and he shouted to his body guards. They moved with lightning speed and extracted automatic sub-machine guns from their coats and began to throw volleys of bullet at me. I froze momentarily, but then my training kicked in. I dropped to the ground and rolled over until I found cover behind the restaurant’s bar. Gunfire continued at my direction, and I finally ducked from behind the table and tackled one of the guards, seized his weapon and returned fire. I don’t remember how long it took for me to safely exit the restaurant, but the confrontation was very bloody. Most of the diners had fled the room and my target along with his eight body guards were dead. I stood frozen, looking in horror at the carnage. I couldn’t believe I was responsible for the death of these people. It was hard not to double over and puke. Then I heard the police sirens, and knew I had to flee.

PROLOGUE I was on the run for most of my life. I never had a day of peace, never had the luxury to decorate a house to live in, because from the age of twenty-three, I never stayed in the same place for more than two or three weeks. I could not own a car for too long- it was a great risk as my car would get tracked, followed and targeted. The joy of a wedding was absent from my life, and the hastily drawn ceremony which I eventually managed to arrange was marred by the deadliest gun fire and mortal assault. I never had the satisfaction of holding my own child, never enjoyed the sunset without worrying about an assassin waiting to shoot me from the fading horizon, never could bask in a private beach for a tan without worrying a drone would strike and kill me and those around me in an instant. I never kept the curtains open for sunlight and never knew what it felt like to walk in the street without having to hide my face and identity. Never had I the privilege to eat in a nice restaurant without my food order being drugged or spiked with nerve agents by paid waiters and chefs. I could never use a public restroom without being terrified of the person who walked inside the bathroom behind me. And finally, I could never trust anyone I talked to without thinking they have been paid to harm me or were hired men sent to kill me.